


Song & Dance

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, Gap Filler, No Slash, Points of View, Romance, Season/Series 01, Spoilers, Suicide, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-28
Updated: 2004-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: You think about all the times he put his neck on the line for you, and it makes your inability to save him just this once seem like even more of a failure; an AU glance at episode 122.





	Song & Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

You don't want to leave your own going-away party because it's the last time you're going to see any of your friends and family before high-tailing it off to Portland with David. And yet, something about Brian's absence nags at you, despite everyone else's scoffing about how it's to be expected. Brian may not like your decision to go, and he may like your boyfriend even less, but he also usually has no problem letting everyone know exactly where he stands. Where most people would hide themselves away, avoid confrontation, Brian stares everyone in the face and tells them in no uncertain terms that he can't stand the ground they walk on. He's the only person you know who can pull that off, and not having that mainstay on your last night in Pittsburgh as a resident rather than a visitor bothers you more than you can fully articulate.

You forego the elevator up to Brian's loft, having jogged over there in an attempt to burn off nervous energy in the first place. You hurry up the stairwell, taking steps two at a time as you near the sixth floor, and rub your gloved palms over your chilled face as you stare at the familiar heavy green door and catch your breath. When knocking a couple of times garners no response, you accompany subsequent ones with a series of hoarse yells. "Brian! Briiiian! Open up, it's --" you pause to sneeze, "it's Michael. Brian!" 

Huffing a bit, you dig your copy of the key out of your pocket and shove it impatiently into the lock; the door creaks as you slide it open, and the air on the other side is sufficiently warmer. It also smells vaguely of expensive wine and body oil, and the notion that Brian had a previous engagement that kept him from attending yours reminds you why you're here. "Brian," you start again, but your voice dies off as your gaze falls upon the sight in the middle of the room. 

You see the chair first, and Brian's toes brushing against the seat, heels slightly lifted and calves tense with the exertion of having to stretch. Your eyes flit to the ceiling, not pausing to take in the way Brian's hand is fisting his cock, still jutting out proudly and dribbling with pre-come. You're only concerned with the white scarf that has a choke-hold on your best friend's neck, and the fact that he isn't moving, even as you climb on the chair and fumble clumsily to unknot the silk monstrosity from its firm hold to the rafters. It takes several seconds, and you're panting from the effort because you're terrified that you're too late. 

Brian falls leaden into your arms and you very nearly tip the chair over trying to lay him out on the ground. You tear the scarf away from his neck, pained to see the purpling skin underneath. Brian's face is ashen, and your mind races to remember the steps for performing CPR. You learned them in a tenth grade Health class, sitting next to Brian, who drew dirty pictures during the majority of the very clinical lecture about the reproductive systems and passed them to you when the teacher wasn't looking. Brian aced the test that followed, you recall; he let you copy most of his answers because your mind had gone blank as soon as you'd glanced at the fill-in-the-blank diagram of the female's vital organs. Brian always did things like that for you - he still does them, in fact. Brian saves you and you try to act like it doesn't bother you that he won't let you acknowledge it. The ebb and flow of Brian and Mikey, best friends forever; same old song-and-dance. 

Your mind finally clicks into gear and you tilt Brian's head back carefully, pinching his nose and wrapping your mouth around his like a suction. Your own heart is pounding wildly in your chest, but you manage to get a few good breath-thrust combinations in. Brian's chest rises and falls, pumped with secondhand air, and you wait desperately to see his eyelids flutter or hear him cough. "Brian, come on," you gasp, but -- nothing. 'Help, get help,' your mind screams, and you grasp your cell phone with shaking fingers and press down a little too hard on the '9' and '1' keys. The receptionist coaxes the needed information out of you, managing to gather Brian's address and the nature of the situation from your high-pitched gasps. "Stay on the line, please, Mr. Novotny, help is on the way," she assures you, and you don't remember giving her your name, but decide you must have. 

You're numb with fear by the time the paramedics arrive, nodding mutely and providing only the barest responses when prompted. Uniformed people hover around Brian, all squinting down at him and mumbling in jargon that you probably could understand a little better if your head wasn't swirling with a thousand different words and sentiments already. Brian's pants are pulled up before they get there; you feel oddly satisfied that you had the foresight to do that for him, at least. You have a pretty good idea of what he must have been up to; Brian's always been one for living dangerously, and his sexual experimentations are no exception. Always young, always beautiful, always chasing something nearly impossible-yet-not-altogether-unattainable, at least for him; it's how you'll always think of Brian, and that's why you made sure to tuck his leaking cock back into his 501s. Brian's rituals and idiosyncracies are his own, you told yourself defiantly as your fingers fumbled with the zipper and Brian's head lolled back unconsciously; exposing them to the general public would cheapen his legend. 

Lots of devices are hooked up to Brian, now, but he remains prone, unyielding to any of the bustling around him. You've watched him sleep lots of times, and the stark difference between those and this terrify you.

You hear the flat-lining of a heart monitor and think deliriously that it's in your head, that any minute now, Brian is going to wake up and grin crookedly at you as you flail your arms and scream about how scared you were. He'll accuse you of becoming like your mother and how pathetic you are, in that voice he only reserves for a very few people in his life, and grasp your face and kiss you squarely on the mouth, and you'll know he's won. You can never stay angry at Brian for long when he does things like that.

But Brian doesn't wake up; his eyelids don't flutter open to reveal long-lashed hazel eyes the way they always do on television, much to the relief of the victim's tear-streaked friends and family. Instead, the heart monitor beeps on persistently, and you feel like you can't breathe as realization sinks in.

"I'm sorry, son, I think we've lost him," the head technician murmurs solemnly, giving your shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. He checks his watch and notes the time, and it doesn't register that he's declaring Brian dead at 10:39 until it's 10:47 and the same guy asks if you'd like to ride in the ambulance with them. You tell them that no, you would rather stay here, and you're not sure why, only that your visit feels unfinished, somehow. Maybe it's guilt; you think about all the times he put his neck on the line for you, and it makes your inability to save him just this once seem like even more of a failure. 'Isn't that how it always goes, though?' you think. 'Brian always saves you and you manage to royally fuck everything up whenever he needs you to return the favor.' Same tune, different situation, but same old song-and-dance, nonetheless. You *are* pathetic, Mikey,' you tell yourself, and there's none of Brian's gentle chiding in the sentiment. 'So fucking pathetic.'

The paramedics lift Brian's body out of the loft, and you sink to your knees on the floor. The white scarf lays crumpled nearby, and you pick it up and smooth it out across your lap. The tassels fall through your fingers, and you feel resentful, somehow, that Brian chose to spend his last moments with this instead of you.

The (expensive - Brian does not even own a cheap toothbrush) clock on the adjacent wall reads 11:57 when your cell phone rings. It hasn't occurred to you until now how you're going to tell any of your friends and family about Brian; you don't know how you'll possibly be able to get the words out. "Michael," your mother answers when you pick up.

"Ma," you start, but she interrupts.

"Michael, sweetie, you - you need to come to the hospital. Right away." You realize that your mother is crying, and you furrow your brow in confusion. Does she already know? How could she? How could anybody?

"Ma," you start again, but her next outburst, before she dissolves into sobs and has to hang up, silences you. 

"It - it's Justin."

\--

The first person you spot in the waiting room is Justin's Prom date because of her sequined pink dress. You remember Brian mentioning her name once, but it eludes you now - Donna or Danielle or something. Justin's mom sits next to her, eyes red-rimmed and knuckles white from clutching a handkerchief. You notice the family resemblance the way you did the first time you and your mom brought Justin home (not that he stayed for very long). It reminds you that he's important to someone, despite your best efforts to minimalize his presence and hate him because of his monopolizing so much of Brian's attention. God, you think, it's such a dumb fucking thing to worry about now. 

Your mom, Vic, Emmett and Ted are there as well, and your mom tells you that Lindsey and Melanie are nearby with Gus. You're too paralyzed with shock to ask if they've tried to get ahold of Brian yet. 

"Justin said he was going to the bathroom," Donna-or-Danielle-or-Daphne - you're pretty sure it's Daphne - is saying. She sniffles and focuses on the sterile green tile, almost too choked up to speak. "He didn't come back for about twenty minutes and I thought it was weird, so I headed towards that general direction." She hugs a black tuxedo jacket to her chest, and you realize that it's stained with blood. "Somebody came out of the guy's bathroom really shaken up, and on a hunch I went in there," Daphne continues, voice barely a whisper. "Justin was - he was lying on the ground and his head was all bloody," she gasps out. "Somebody had s-smashed it in, and there was a baseball bat that had rolled near one of the stalls." Daphne grasps Jennifer's hand and squeezes it tightly, tears rolling down her cheeks as she finishes one of many reiterations of the tale. 

"Who? Who could have done such a thing?" your mom demands, her voice husky as she battles her own tears in her indignance. 

"This stupid jock named Chris Hobbs," Daphne replies brokenly. "He's had it in for Justin ever since he came out - he's been harassing him in and out of class and everything. Nobody thought he'd take it this far, though," she sobs, and Jennifer pulls her into a hug.

You notice that Emmett is crying as well, Ted rubbing his back soothingly, and move to sit on the other side of him. "Did somebody call Brian?" Ted asks suddenly, always a stickler for details, and your heart settles in your throat.

"Did Justin ever tell Brian about Chris Hobbs?" Jennifer queries before anyone can answer Ted's question. "Did he ever express worry about it?" You grit your teeth, not liking the underlying implication that this is somehow Brian's fault. 

"Justin called Chris out on Liberty Avenue once," Emmett sniffles beside you, and Ted pats his shoulder. "Brian was going to beat the shit out of him if he tried anything," Emmett smiles ruefully.

"J-Justin invited Brian to the Prom," Daphne murmurs, cuddling the stained jacket to her. "But Brian turned him down."

"He'd probably have felt totally out of place there," Ted notes, and his casual tone angers you, even though he wouldn't begin to understand why.

"But just think, if he *had* gone, this whole thing might have been prevented," your mother laments. "But the asshole can't even put in an appearance at his best friend's going-away party," she spits, and suddenly, you can't be silent anymore.

"You want to know why Brian didn't go to the Prom and didn't come to my party and isn't here right now?" you shout, not bothering to care who hears you. "It's because he was trying to jerk off and hung himself with a scarf in his loft! He's dead," you screech, and it feels like your heart has been ripped clean out of your chest to admit it aloud. "He's dead, he's fucking dead!" you sob, and there's nothing to say that can even remotely suffice, so nobody says anything - which of course, ends up saying everything.

At 1:43 AM, a doctor strides stoically to the assembled group. The look on his face is one of clinical compassion, and you loathe it because he has nothing more to lose delivering news to you and your mom and Daphne than he does anyone else. "I'm sorry, but he didn't make it," he says softly. "We've lost him." And as Jennifer and Debbie collapse into each other's arms, mourning the loss of both their sons, you wonder how many people have to hear those same words twice in a lifetime, let alone in the same night. 

\--

Around 10, "David" pops up on your cell phone's screen; it's only 7 AM in Portland, he tells you, and you can hear Hank in the background banging a cereal bowl around or something. "How's it going?" your lover asks, and you wonder how bad of a boyfriend you are for having forgotten completely about your significant other since leaving the party thrown partially in his honor last night. 

David prattles on about getting re-established across the country as a chiropractor, and Hank's latest project at school, and all the other things you used to think were worth leaving Pittsburgh for. But as you let the tassels of the white scarf tickle your fingertips absentmindedly as it hangs loosely around your neck, you wonder who you were fooling. The only reason you were even considering going was because you thought Brian was going to get that job in New York City; you tried to tell yourself otherwise a few nights ago, lying in bed next to David and staring numbly at the ceiling, but accepting the truth made you a lot less weary. You love David, you have strong enough feelings for him to call it love, but it's not enough to have to cut ties with everyone you know and love here. Even if Brian wasn't going to be there, you're pretty sure you would have figured that out. And then you realize that Brian isn't here, not anymore. 

David starts to sound exasperated, and you realize that you've been giving the barest minimum in terms of conversational responses ever since he called. "So when can I expect to come pick you up at the airport?" he asks, and your hand drops to your lap dejectedly. 

"Brian's dead."

"... what?" David asks, and you hear him gasp incredulously on the other end. "Michael, did I hear you ri-"

"Brian died last night," you continue in a monotone voice. "He hung himself. And that kid, that -- Justin -- the one who won the King of Babylon contest, he ... he got attacked at his Prom. They're both dead, David," you affirm, and the silence you receive for a response is deafening. 

"God," David breathes. "Christ, Michael, I - I'm so sor-" 

"You have nothing to be sorry for," you say tiredly. "I mean, what could you do, right? What could any of us done? Except me," you say, and the bitterness that you've been directing internally at yourself seeps into your words. "I couldn't even get there in time."

"Michael," David starts, and then lets it drop, obviously realizing that this isn't something he can just gruffly pep talk out of you, the way he does most things. You listen to each other breathing for several moments before he speaks again, his voice seeming to have aged twenty years in just five minutes. "Where does this leave us?"

"I - I have to stay for the funeral ... funerals," you say, hands slipping over the scarf again. It's become sort of a comfort blanket to you, the last thing Brian touched before he died, and when you press it close to your nose, you can still smell him. You pause for a long moment and swallow. "I don't know what I'm going to do after that."

"I understand," David sighs. When he tells you to take care and that he'll "talk to you later", though, you both know it really means "goodbye". 

\--

The day of the joint funeral service is overcast, and you have to squint slightly as the sun beams down just enough to irritate your eyes. It seems fitting somehow, though, because everyone blurs together in a sea of black clothing and pale faces anyway. Even Gus, who at not even a year old, cannot fully comprehend the situation, clings to his mother solemnly, not fussing as the obligatory psalms are recited. 

The two coffins that lay side by side are identical cherry oak lined with blue satin, like a twisted distortion of the final scene in "Romeo and Juliet". It was only scant days ago that you went shopping with Ted and Emmett for a similar prop for Brian's death-day party, and that thought comforts you, even though you don't think anybody should have to become so intimate with the details of a funeral, mock or not. 

Jennifer stands next to Daphne on the other side of the semi-circle formed of Brian (and Justin's) friends and family. Even Justin's father is there - you recognize him from the time he beat the shit out of Brian outside Babylon and had to help Ted and Emmett physically restrain Brian from returning the favor. The expression on his face is pensive; you wonder if he expected Justin to go this way, the victim of a gay bashing or AIDS or something unhappy that only ever happens to fags, but you have enough foresight to realize that this isn't the time or place to bring that up. 

Brian's mother doesn't cry; she stands slightly apart from the rest of the group, Brian's sister Claire next to her, equally stone-faced. It's a far cry from the waterworks Claire put on at Jack's service, and you're pretty sure it's because she's too busy helping Joan pray for the salvation of Brian's soul. You're not even sure if Brian ever told his mom that he was gay, but with her, everything seems to be a mortal sin, so you're sure she's got enough to work with anyways. Your mom, on the other hand, hasn't stopped sobbing since the procession began, and you realize that Brian is as much her son as you are. 

Justin garnered a special place in her heart, too, though, and you can't help but feel a bit of blackness towards him in yours for that. Because even though he's dead, now, the ease at which he charmed everyone, and his natural ability to assimilate himself into your tightly-knit group never set well with you. Your mother loved him like a son, and Brian loved him the way he would never love you. Justin accomplished in scant months what you'd been trying to achieve for fifteen years, and even in death, he's managed to entwine himself with Brian in a way you'll never be able to. And you'll always be slightly resentful of him for that, you realize, fingering the scarf in your pocket, unable to leave it at home but feeling it would be obsequious and out-of-place at the cemetery. 'Always wanting things you can't have', you think. 'Same old song-and-dance.'

You are so pathetic.


End file.
